Scrapbook
by PandaFire McMango
Summary: Collins takes a peek at Mimi and Angel's scrapbook. What is it like? Latenight fic, pleas be nice! character death, and it is sad...anyway, rated T for random stuff. okiedoke.
1. Finding, Reading, and Smiling

"Honey, you really need to sleep. I mean, I can stay here all night if you want. It's no problem, I swear." Collins looked up at Mimi, who was bending over worriedly, one hand on his arm. Her eyes had bags beneath them, and bluish marks had begun to form very faintly in the folds of her skin, which had multiplied in the last few days. She looked terrible. There was no way she could stay up another night.

"Hell no, Meems," he said, using a nickname that was reserved for quiet moments like this. "You know that I'm fine. And you're the one that needs to rest, girl. She'd want you to." Mimi looked like she wanted to protest, but Collins gave her a look. She smiled wearily and kissed his cheek.

"She's lucky to have you, Collins." With that farewell, Mimi turned and quietly left the hospital room, moving like she was already half asleep. Collins watched her go and then watched the door as it closed, swinging shut with an ominous creaking sound. It made Collins shiver, and as though sensing his unrest, the small, pale form on the hospital bed beside him stirred slightly, mumbling illegible words under her breath. He squeezed her hand and waited for her to settle back down. God, she was so…he didn't know what to call the transformation that Angel had undergone. All he knew was that her friendly, strong voice had begun hoarse and painful to use. That her hands, so slim and elegant and firm, had wasted away to thin, tired, pale autumn leaves. That her beautiful, loving face was heartbreaking, its skin drawn tightly back against the bones and the stunning natural contours and shadows that had been dazzling when she smiled faded away to nothing. And most of all, he knew that her sparkle, her _joie de vivre_, her special aura of love and emotion, was gone. It had been drained away from her like the blood that the doctors kept drawing. The blood that held her death warrant.

Collins ran one worn brown finger over her forehead. It felt waxy and cool, like that of a corpse. Shivering, he drew his hand away. Angel wasn't dead, not yet. She was clinging to life, clinging to Mimi and him and all the others. Collins thanked whoever the hell was up there everyday for letting her win the battle each day, for letting her stay tethered to them for the last twenty-four hours. But sometimes he wished that she could let go, that the horrific pains that wracked her body and made her retch would disappear even at the cost of her life. He loved her too much to see her in pain like this. He loved her too much to bear her suffering.

Collins moved his eyes away from Angel's pale face and cast them around the room, trying to find something to take his focus away from her. His eyes landed on a small green, square object, lying at the foot of Angel's bed. Slowly, he reached down with his free hand and picked it up, bringing it close to him for scrutiny.

It wasn't her diary; he knew what that looked like. And it didn't seem to be a regular book either. On the cover was a strange drawing of intertwining vines, all different colors and textures. They seemed to form some pattern, looping and twisting on the green Pleather cover. Collins squinted and tried to decipher them. _M…i…mi…an…d…Ange…l's…scrapb…ook._

Wow, Their scrapbook. Collins glanced at Angel, who was sleeping peacefully. He raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed the tips of her fingers. Then he slowly lowered her hand and put it down, letting it rest on the white hospital blanket. Eagerly turning to the book, he flipped open the cover and looked at the first photo. It was an old one, with faded, grainy colors and slightly hazy lines. Mimi and Angel stood together at a train station, their arms wrapped around each other's waists. Mimi was throwing her head back and laughing wildly, her curly brown hair sticking about a foot into the air. Angel smiled broadly, her shiny black wig looking as beautiful on her as it always did. Though she looked energetic and open, something about Angel still conveyed mystery: there was a look in her eyes that seemed like a dam, a barrier that held back her true self. Collins had broken down the barrier only a few times. And what he had seen behind it had solidified their relationship beyond compare.

Both Mimi and Angel looked younger in this picture. It was probably from only a little while after they first met. It only showed that Angel and Mimi had truly been fast friends, and long-lasting ones too. Collins touched the photo gently. Then he turned the page.


	2. Babies, Halloween, and Waking Up

The next photo made Collins smile. It was obviously Halloween, as he could see small, grotesque forms and gleaming jack o'lanterns in the background. Mimi was dressed as a flapper, with a turquoise, shimmery dress that fell to her knees, and matching high heels and barrettes. Angel was Marilyn Monroe, complete with a blond wig even better than her Pussy Galore one, a sleek, suggestive white gown and high heels that boosted her almost five inches off the ground. One arm was around Mimi's shoulders and the other was high in the air, pointing excitedly towards the sky. Mimi had both her arms around Angel's waist, hugging her close. Both of them clutched strange, misshapen candy collection bags. They looked as close as sisters.

Collins looked over the photo for a few more moments, laughing out loud at the blurred, terrified face of a trick or treater that was passing to their left. Then he turned to the next page, consuming the essence of the photos like wine.

The next photo was just Mimi, in her work uniform. She was standing on a bench in Central Park, her head thrown back in a howl, one leg kicking high in the air. Her tangled brown hair was loose and wild, bouncing around her head. She looked free and beautiful, like a wild spirit. From the shiny words, "_First Day!"_ below the picture, Collins guessed that this was her first day of work, back when she had been healthy and happy and didn't have weekly meetings with The Man. Collins sighed and turned the page again, wanting to escape the mourning of Mimi's lost self.

This page brightened his mood considerably: it was another solo photo, only this one of Angel. She—he—was sitting on the street, his pickle tub propped up in front of him. Two sticks were poised in the air, ready to fall into an energetic beat. Angel wasn't in drag, only jeans, his old red jacket, and his blue hat. That was his favorite drumming outfit. Warm, comfortable, and fitting. Collins knew that sometimes, Angel didn't want to get into drag, didn't want to make his transformation. He wanted to be "normal", to blend in. But Collins also knew that most of the time, Angel was never happier than when he was putting on make up and selecting which skirt to wear. It was who he was, what made him the irresistible, amazing person he was.

In the photo, Angel's face was bright and happy, a radiant smile shining like a street lamp. His white teeth sparkled against his creamy mocha skin, and his dark, flashing eyes were warm and inviting. Collins felt himself tingle with feeling for Angel, just from the sheer joy and intensity of this picture. It captured Angel; not the glamorous past of her, no, but the comfortable, easygoing side. He was your friend the moment you looked at him in the photo. That's just the way he made you feel.

Before the tears in his eyes blurred Collins's vision completely, he flipped through the next few pages, finding more photos of Mimi and Angel together, Mimi and Angel separately, and one, surprisingly, of them as babies. Collins could only assume that they had somehow secured these pictures from their families, but with Angel and Mimi you never knew what they might have saved and packed away, ready for any use. The baby photos were side by side on one page, a few pieces of colored yarn and rhinestones connecting them. Collins laughed aloud (albeit quietly so as not to wake Angel) at how much they reflected their grown counterparts. Mimi was a dark, intense baby, with the beginnings of brown curls sprouting from her scalp. She was staring almost seductively, if a baby can be seductive, out of the picture, one hand clumsily sweeping over her chubby hip. She was dressed in a pink dress, which might have been mini-dress short on purpose. It was pure Mimi.

The other photo was black and white, but Angel could not have been more vivid had it been Technicolor. He was dressed in dark overalls, with what might have been a pink shirt on beneath. A slight fuzz of dark hair was already covering his head, and his baby fat seemed nonexistent: he was slim and beautiful. In one hand was a swatch of sparkly cloth, bright and dazzling. He was trying to put the cloth around his neck like a boa or a scarf, grinning hysterically at his failed attempts. Those eyes sparkled even at this early point on life, and something of the diva hovered around him. Collins did choke back a sob now, grieving for what a mere disease had done to this beautiful, wonderful child, who seemed to so look forward life ahead, even within the confines of a photograph.

Collins, needing to see something else, turned the page and nearly dropped the book. Grinning maniacally out of the next photo was his own face, still bruised and battered from his mugging on Christmas Eve. One of his arms was wrapped tightly around Angel's waist, their bodies pressing lovingly together. Her arms were thrown around his shoulders, and one leg was popped up at the knee, like a girl in an old movie. Her head was tipping back, a dazzling smile conveying such strong love and joy and life that Collins had to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand and look away for a minute before he could again stare at an image that he himself remembered taking place in real life.

It was a still from Mark's videos; shot Christmas Day, after Maureen's riot and the night at the Life. Collins had proceeded to swing Angel around by her hand, then pull her close and kiss her, much to the teasing joy of Mimi, Roger, and Mark. Neither of them had card though; they had enjoyed the kiss and then joined in the laughter when they broke apart. Collins remembered the way he had felt: invincible, filled with hysterical joy, and almost embarrassingly in love. That feeling, the euphoria of Angel, had been never-ending, at least until last week. Collins shuddered, scared by the total change in his life from that moment to this.

"Honey, what're you looking at?" Angel stirred weakly beside him, her eyes blinking open. Collins jumped a little and turned to see her smiling wearily at him, her lips pale and thin.

"Ang, baby, did I wake you up? God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Shut up, Collins, honey, and help me sit up. These damn beds are like San Francisco: bumps and dips and fucking trolleys everywhere." Collins chuckled and reached around her waist, lifting her frail body and propping her up against her pillows.

"Girl, I think that medication is a little strong."

"Just humor me, baby. Now what were you—" Angel was cut off by a coughing fit. Collins felt like someone was shoving the butt of a gun into his back with every hacking cough that jolted her weak frame. He reached forward, but she waved a hand at him and struggled firmly to stop, finally winding down with a great, shuddering hack. Collins slipped an arm around her shoulders, feeling her body shake with the force of the coughs. He wanted so badly to draw the sickness out, to take the full brunt of the pain and suffering and give her a chance for some peace.

"Now Collins, I'm fine. What were you looking at, baby?" she insisted, trying to draw his attention away from the attack.

"Oh, just your scrapbook. I guess Mimi brought and left it here when she went to get some rest." Angel made a sound that might have been called a squeal if she had had enough strength for a real one. Taking the book from his lap, she flipped through the first few pages, eagerly devouring the photos with her eyes.

"Collins, we've had this since like three years ago! I can't believe it! Oh god, look at that skirt Mimi had, and wow, _that_ was an awesome purchase on my part, but really, what isn't?" Angel chattered on, some newfound strength running through her veins. Collins watched her, his heart glowing and breaking at the same time.

"Hey baby, can we go through this together? From the beginning? I'd really like that." Angel looked at him with the best puppy-dog eyes she could muster, but it wasn't needed; Collins was already getting up and moving her over gently, climbing onto the bed beside her. Sighing happily, Angel leaned against Collins's chest and opened the book to the first page. Collins put his arms around Angel and squeezed her gently. She was his Angel, with or without AIDS. And she wasn't gone yet,


	3. Promise Me You'll Do It?

Collins and Angel thumbed through the pages of the scrapbook, admiring each picture as they came to it. Angel would laugh and explain what had happened before and after, and Collins would just lose himself in the sound of her voice, the feeling of her in his arms and the brush of her hands as she gestured. The life in her that he treasured so much seemed to have flared when she saw the book, and Collins would savor that in anyway he could.

"Oh my god, look, it's our baby pictures, I forgot that we had those! I love Mimi's, it's just so _her, _you know? C'mon, here, let's—" Angel turned the page and stared at the next photo, the one of Collins and her together. Slowly, she put one finger on the edge of the picture and gently traced it. Collins tightened his hold on her slightly.

"This was the first one we put in, huh?" Angel said, her voice surprisingly husky. "I remember that, a day after Christmas…c'mon I want to see more." She turned the page, and now the photos were new to Collins as well. Here was a shot of Roger and Mimi, leaning towards each other with big smiles on their faces. Collins felt himself smile at that. Then there was a photo of Angel, Maureen, Mimi, and Joanne, arms linked around each other. And after that, three more pictures that featured Collins: one of him with Roger and Mark, one with him and Mimi, and another where had his arms around Angel's waist. They moved through the book slowly, taking in each photograph. Somehow, Collins felt Angel shiver when they looked at certain photos, and he wondered if they should stop; but he knew that she wouldn't let him stop her if he tried.

Finally, the last page was turned, and they were staring at the last three photos, grouped together on the page. The two smaller ones were in the top corners: on the left was Mimi and Roger, arms wrapped around each other, faces inches apart. On the right were Collins and Angel, lips touching gently as they kissed each other. And in the center, a large group shot of all seven of them, arm around each other's shoulders and waist. Mark was at the far left, with one arm around Roger, and Roger had an arm around him and one around Mimi's hips. Mimi was sort of jumping in the air, one hand on Roger's shoulder and the other around Angel's neck. Angel, whose face was bright and laughing and merry, really, was leaning against Collins and reaching out to ground Mimi at the same time. Collins had his arm around Angel's waist and the other around Maureen's, who was trying to plant a big kiss on Joanne. Joanne looked like she was struggling to get away and stay in the picture at the same time, but Maureen had her by the shoulders and there was nothing she could do. They all clung together, one family, one group, one love. Collins felt his throat ache a little as he gazed at what they had been. How could everything have gone so wrong?

Angel, he suddenly realized, was crying. Her body was shaking very slightly, and Collins felt a drop of something wet slither onto his hand.

"Baby, are you okay? You want me to—"

"No, it's okay honey, I'm…I'm fine." Angel wiped her eyes and sniffed. "Sorry, just looking at that makes me a little…you know. But Collins…Collins, I don't want to die."

The way she said it was like an arrow in his body. All he could do was wrap his arms around her tighter and kiss the top of her head as she sobbed harder now, tears actually running down her face. He had never seen her loose control like this, never seen her openly weep for herself. It hurt him so badly.

"Sorry…sorry," she struggled to say, choking back the cries in her throat. But Collins only held her and let her cry again, finally winding down as her tears dissipated.

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry, baby, that just…just came up, you know? But I'm ok now, I'm fine. Honey, I want to show you something." Angel, still breathing hard, reached down and picked up the scrapbook, flipping to the last page. The pictures gleamed into the hospital light, and Collins felt like shutting his eyes. Angel, reaching to the top of the page, actually slid her finger into the sheet of paper.

"You see this? It's like a pocket, where Mimi and I used to eave each other notes…Baby, after I'm gone, check inside this pocket, ok?"

"But wh—"

"Promise me you'll do it?" Her voice was shaking a little, and before she could cry again he said, "Of course, Ang, of course I will."

"Good, and now baby, I think I'm just a little tired. I'm gonna sleep now, ok?" Collins nodded and got up, letting Angel lie back on the pillows. But instead of sitting in the chair again, he lay down next to her, one arm under her neck and the other passing over her stomach, gripping her waist. She didn't say anything, only rolled around o curl up beside him. And that's how Mimi found them the next morning, snuggled up together like little children, taking comfort in each other.


	4. One Last Refrain

The hospital room seemed like a graveyard as Collins slowly moved through it, trailing his hands over the neatly made bed and sheets, over the wilting flowers and coffee cups, over the bottle of blue nail polish and the short black wig. They were tombstones, vague allusions to what had once been.

She was gone. Gone forever, gone who the hell knows where, but gone. Never coming back, never coming back, never touching him or kissing him or laughing in his ear again. No Angel, no nothing, no life, nothing. She was gone.

Collins sat down in the chair he had sat in so often in the last few weeks, right beside her bed, where she could reach out and grab his hand anytime. The emptiness inside him as he stared at the flat, unmarked bed was raw and painful, scraping him hard again and again. Gone. He couldn't go out and find her, couldn't write her a letter, couldn't hear her voice one last time. It was over. Dead. Dead and gone.

Oh god. He felt like throwing up as he stared at the bottle of nail polish, sitting squat and blue on the bedside table. The same polish that Angel, and later Mimi, had spread lovingly and carefully onto her hands…

_Her warm, smooth, gentle brown hands, so immeasurably wonderful as they clutched his own worn brown ones, so intoxicating as they slid gently up the muscles of his back, so comforting as they handed him something, anything, and he caught them and held them and never let go…_

But he had let go. And she wasn't here anymore, she had slipped away from him, she was gone. Gone.

To keep back the wrenching sobs and pains that had already surfaced more than once since two nights ago, Collins looked around the room for something to focus on. His eyes landed on the green scrapbook, lying sadly on the counter near the window. Although he knew it would torture him, he got up and grabbed the book, opening it to the first page. There she was, his queen, his lover, shining happily out from the page. He gently touched her face, and for a moment the photo felt warm, like her skin…

_Her soft, beautiful skin, so welcoming and inviting, feeling like silk as she pressed against him, her face and arms and chest all smooth and strong and loving as they kissed and laughed and loved…_

And then the photo felt like it should: cold and unalive. He turned the pages, looking through the book, trying to glean some small comfort from her image. There she was smiling, there she was laughing, there she was dancing, there she was, there she was. It was all just so her, so Angel.

The last page was suddenly bare in front of him, its three pictures gleaming in the light from the ceiling. He gazed at the picture of him and his girl, lips gently pressing together…

_Her lips, like small slices of fruit, gently touching his, and then other times, not so gently, fast and passionate and hungry for love, and then still other times, curving gracefully as she talked and smiled…_

The last, biggest picture hurt the most. Their family was coming apart at the seams: Mimi using and being with Benny, Roger sinking into depression, Maureen and Joanne fighting all the time, Mark living behind his camera. But Collins was sure that, if Angel had lived, she could have kept them together. She could have gotten Mimi and Roger back together, could have helped Maureen and Joanne work out their problems, could have coaxed Mark from his hiding place. But she was gone, and the core of their group, the one who always had that special something, was gone, and they were spinning away now, lost and alone.

Collins rubbed the page between his thumb and forefinger, surprising to feel it shifting beneath his touch. The he remembered the pocket, and Angel's request. Suddenly full of something like hope, he reached into the pocket and felt around. Something brushed his fingers: an envelope and a folded piece of paper. Taking hold of them gently, he drew them out.

The envelope bore the logo of Joanne's law firm, so Angel must have gotten it from her. The paper was like notebook paper, lined with blue and crumpled at the edges. On the envelope was written _Open Me First._ Tentatively, he worked open the flap and drew out the creamy, thick piece of paper inside. It was folded three times. He unfolded it and started to read.

"I, Angel Dumott Schunard, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath my property, real estate, and residence to one Thomas B. Collins…"

Collins skimmed the rest of the document. It was Angel's will. At the bottom were a shaky signature and a strong one. The second was Joanne's; the first was Angel's. Collins quickly reread the first sentence, then read it once more, not really believing what he was reading.

"…do hereby bequeath my property, real estate, and residence to Thomas B. Collins…"

She had left him her house. The house that somehow she owned was now his. He had a place to stay, a place to live. He wouldn't have to stay with Roger and Mark. She had given him the house.

Collins put down the will and put his head in his hands, visions of Angel floating teasingly behind his eyelids. She had done it again. Even in death, Angel showed more love and generosity than most people did in a lifetime. Tears blurred his vision as he straightened and reached for the folded piece of paper. It unfolded easily, the creases light. It was covered in shaky pen, but the words stood out clearly to him.

"_Dear Collins,_

_Well, baby, I guess if you're reading this now I'm gone. I'm sorry, honey, I didn't mean for it all to happen like this, but there's not a hell of a lot that I can do about it now, is there? Don't think I'm angry or anything, baby, cause I'm not. Well, maybe I am. I'm angry because the time that I wanted, the time that we needed and that we deserved, just got stolen. It's not fair that we had so little time, is it?_

_Baby, I want you to know what you mean to me. When I found out I was positive, some part of me shut down. I thought that nothing BIG, nothing life changing would happen to me, because I wouldn't live long enough for it to happen. And then you came along and changed my life on Christmas. A million thank yous for that, honey, and for everything else you've done for me, what you know about and what you don't. I love you so much, and I always will. Never forget that._

_Mimi is going to have a hard time with me being gone. I know you are too, but if you too can help each other, it would be great. I don't want anyone, especially not you two, to let this bring you down. Be happy that I had what I had, and that I had you. No day but today, right honey? Oh, and the other thing, whatever it's called, in the envelope, you got that, right? I had Jo draw that up for me. It says who gets my stuff and all. I hope that it works for you and everyone. After all, I have great taste in stuff!_

_Again, I love you more than anything, Tom, and I'm gonna be waiting for you up there, baby! I love you and I'm waiting._

_This day is 4 u, ok?_

_Love, your Angel."_

Collins really did cry now, as he read the words that his lover had written for him. It was one last gift, one last refrain from his Angel. She did so much for them all. How fair was it that she was gone?

But as Collins looked around the room, he realized that she might be gone from NYC and the earth, but that didn't mean that she was gone from his heart and mind, from everybody's hearts and minds. She was there, nestled in a padding of memory, and until Collins was gone himself and he joined her up wherever she was, he could escape there, escape into his heart and find a tiny bit of solace. And in the face of Angel's death, any solace was what he needed.

Today 4 U.


End file.
